


SHOULD I / BECAUSE IT'S EXPECTED / STICK A PIECE OF IRON INTO / THE NEAREST FLESH OR NEXT-NEAREST

by griima (soaringslash)



Series: WHO IS THE CORPSE IN THE MEAT-WAGON’S STY / FOR WHOM IS THERE SUCH A HUE AND CRY? [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: im back at it again with the cryptic nonsense, this one makes more sense though, vague mentions of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-08-30
Packaged: 2020-09-30 09:50:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20445167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soaringslash/pseuds/griima
Summary: I too was there, and I survived(ah, he laughs, but now you’ve died)





	SHOULD I / BECAUSE IT'S EXPECTED / STICK A PIECE OF IRON INTO / THE NEAREST FLESH OR NEXT-NEAREST

And thus he turns to face the sky  
_(for whom does a soulless prince-corpse cry?)_

He opens his mouth, only silence escapes. The scream beneath his skin remains.  
Once upon a time, it was a whisper. Coiled in his stomach, a little black marble_ (a memory worn smooth by his handling and yet still the scratches and edges remain), _it grew louder and louder and louder and louder until it was too big to fit inside him -

Too big to be let out.

Once upon a time, it was quelled into static.

A hard little marble nestled inside him, cold as loss and hot as rage -

An answering flicker in another man’s eye -

_I too was there, and I survived_

_(ah, he laughs, but now you’ve died) _

And laughs and laughs for the answer is gone. Has vanished, and what is inside him now threatens to shatter - has already shattered

_its shards are sharp they rip and tear they clog his throat and everything that he says is now sharp sharp sharp it is better not to speak at all_

He is a beast, a monster, an abomination cloaked in human skin. 

It is cold, so cold. Perhaps it will always be. Perhaps it always was. 

“Dimitri,” someone says, and he turns, and all that he says is Sharp. 

There is a flash of pain in soapstone-green eyes. He cannot find it in himself to apologize. They are the wrong color 

Everything is wrong. 

It will always be.

That is the last thing he knows.

He will teach it to the world.

The dead at his feet are a relief - _for finally the world sees what he sees _\- and the world tilts and spins in answer that he is wrong wrong wrong wrong.

That all that he can see is death, that all he can spread is death. That what has been done is doomed to repeat and they are all so horribly helpless and the scream beneath his skin bubbles and broils and his spear thrusts out and hits the resistance of flesh - 

_Ah._

Like a dream, like a nightmare. That answering flicker. 

Hands are warm, unlike death. Scar-lines-scar-lies _no-it-cannot-be_

But it is it is _it is._

The hard little marble cracks. There is something else inside.

_flowers and sunlight and snowflakes in silver hair warm kitchens strange spices that tingle his tasteless tongue -_

No.

He does not deserve such things.

He does not dare to touch such memories. All that he touches, he breaks.

They are too precious.

_“Your Highness.” _

_No,_ he says aloud. Again and again, as if it can change.

_No,_ he says. _No._

Warm hands engulf his. There are words but he cannot hear them. He feels them, rattling in his ribcage.

It is all too terrible, too wonderful. All too impossible. 

And yet, and yet, and yet…

His lips catch on scar. 

_Yes, _he weeps. 

_“Please,” _is the answer.

And so Dimitri throws his head back and screams, because -

Because.

Because…

_True sorrow, true joy, cares not for what it looks or sounds like._


End file.
